


i just want to be part of your symphony

by Anonymous



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Guild Wars Series (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Development, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Fix-It, Gen, Guild Wars 2: Heart of Thorns, Guild Wars 2: Path of Fire, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Romance, there are others here too im just not tagging them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:47:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23354170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Trahearne wakes up in pain.It’s not exactly ideal. There’s a dull ache permeating his limbs and an incessant pounding in his head. He tries to sit up and just ends up prompting another wave of agony for his troubles, his entire left side on fire.But considering that he hadn’t expected to wake at all- it’s not too bad, honestly. It can be said that he needs better standards, but when it comes to either dying or being in pain but alive, he knows which is the lesser evil.(The one where Trahearne survives Heart of Thorns and lives to fall in love)
Relationships: Trahearne/Player Character (Guild Wars)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 79
Collections: Anonymous





	i just want to be part of your symphony

Trahearne wakes up in pain.

It’s not exactly ideal. There’s a dull ache permeating his limbs and an incessant pounding in his head. He tries to sit up and just ends up prompting another wave of agony for his troubles, his entire left side on fire.

But considering that he hadn’t expected to wake at all- it’s not too bad, honestly. It can be said that he needs better standards, but when it comes to either dying or being in pain but alive, he knows which is the lesser evil.

(That, and: his head is quiet. Blessedly so. It’s almost jarring, and if moving doesn’t set every one of his nerves alight he might have brought a hand to his head to steady himself. He’d forgotten what it was like, to think without the dragon lurking in the corners of his mind.)

There’s only one person who could be responsible for all this. The name slips past his lips, unbidden.

“Commander?”

The room is empty, so there’s no reply. He feels... foolish, somehow, for calling out like that. What had he expected? That his voice would magically summon his second in command to his side? He chides himself for the thought, even as he manages to push himself upright.

Except that’s exactly what happens. The door to the room practically slams open and rattles at its hinges. He looks up, startled, and sees The Commander standing there in the doorway, their eyes wide. Their hand hangs limply from the door handle, forgotten. 

For a moment, neither of them speak. Then The Commander makes a wet noise at the back of their throat, and suddenly there are strong arms around him and a face buried into his shoulder, as he hisses in shocked surprise. His body hurts like nightmare now, but The Commander is warm and steady and he can't quite bring himself to shake them off.

“You’re okay.” They murmur into his skin, and one of their hands finds his bandaged fingers and squeezes. The other rests on his back. “It was touch and go for a second there. The medics told me to be prepared for anything. But you’re okay.”

He can practically taste their relief, and-

(“Commander, please kill me.”)

-he feels ashamed. He doesn’t regret what he asked of them, not really, not when he could have destroyed the world and all in it, but now that he’s alive and breathing and the world still exists he wishes he could have spared them the agony of choice. He shuts his eyes and rests his cheek on their shoulder, breathing in the smell of iron and steel.

“I apologize.” He tells them. Their hand clutches at the back of his hospital gown for one second before it goes lax. All the tension drains out of them in a rush.

“I forgive you.” The Commander says, and for the first time since he woke up Trahearne smiles.

* * *

The healers are none too happy when they find The Commander practically sitting on him as the two of them had embraced, nor are they particularly appreciative of the fact that Trahearne hadn’t made an effort to call for them when he woke.

The Slayer of Dragons, the Hero of Tyria, The Commander of the Pact themself, is practically chased out. The Marshall of the Pact and Cleanser of Orr listens to his self preservation instincts and keeps quiet as his bandages are changed.

It soon becomes clear that he’s... changed. It’s not merely that he’s quieter now, so unused to speaking after who knows how long held captive. It’s not even that he flinches when people touch him unexpectedly, or that he wakes up from dreams of dragons and rot. Those are understandable changes, and expected.

It’s that his left side is stiff, unbearably so. He has to relearn how to move his limbs, and even after hours of practice trying to lift his left hand makes pins and needles run down arms. A lot of his leaves had withered- they had to prune his hair to examine his head, so now he’s half bald on top of all those other changes

(He doesn’t breathe anymore. He hadn’t been too alarmed at first; Sylvari didn't need to breathe after all, not the way humans do. The rise and fall of their chests had always been more imitation than actual necessity. But he doesn’t glow anymore either, and his leaves never quite regain their former luster, no matter how many days have passed.)

(He sleeps like the dead now. His heart barely beats.)

The Commander is a constant presence. To be honest, Trahearne isn’t that embarrassed of his appearance, but there’s something about the way The Commander dotes on him that makes him self conscious. He can't possibly look good, with half his head shaved off and his very appearance probably resembling that of a half dead plant, but they keep looking at him like he’s something precious. Like they can’t see the rot still clinging to him, like all they want is to bundle him up and keep him safe.

“I don’t understand why they keep looking at me like that.” He mentions to Caithe one afternoon, poking at the food the medics had given him. It’s delicious porridge, he’s sure. He’s just not hungry.

“You can be surprisingly oblivious.” His sister tells him as she polishes her dagger. The way she says it, she might as well have called him an idiot. After a few more minutes of watching him not eating, she continues. “The Commander helped make that.”

He swallows down a spoonful of porridge immediately, then looks over to the strange machine he’s been hooked up to, which is beeping quite loudly. What was its purpose again..? Ah, right.

“Is that heart monitor supposed to be acting this way?” He asks. Beside him, Caithe makes a wordless sound of frustration- and though he doesn’t understand why exactly his heart beating faster is making his sister look fit to assassinate somebody, he decides to change the subject.

* * *

Trahearne wheels himself out of the room and tries not to feel too much like he’s fleeing as he does. It isn’t that he hates being doted on, it’s just-

Oh, who is he kidding? He does hate it. He values his solitude, he always has, and it’s suffocating carrying the weight of concerned glances and well meaning pokes and prods. It’s why he’s looking over his shoulder as he definitely-does-not-run-away, as if the Head Healer herself is about to appear behind him and drag him back to bed.

(He is not technically cleared after all. They’d brought him outside at his request, after he mentioned how bereft he feels staring at the same walls day in and day out. They just hadn’t expected for the Marshall of the Pact to slip out under their noses.

It’s Taimi’s fault, really. The wheelchair he’s in is a technological marvel, and he spares a brief moment to wonder what would have happened had Kasmeer not stopped her at cupholders.)

Regardless, he makes a mental note to be more sympathetic the next time The Commander gets injured and refuses to stay in bed.

Speaking of The Commander... he wheels himself towards the training ground, already hearing the tell-tale clash of blades. The closer he gets, the louder the sounds of battle becomes, until he can clearly see them engaged in a sword fight with Canach.

He doesn’t interrupt them, but parks himself in a comfortable spot and watches. Though it’s not always their first choice, The Commander is leagues better than he is when it comes to wielding a blade. 

(For him, Cadalbogh is a weapon. The Commander holds their sword like it’s an extension of themself.)

An indiscernible tension seems to leak from between his shoulder blades as he watches, the world around him becoming white noise in the back of his head. He can’t count the number of times he’d watched The Commander spar, and the familiar sight is reassuring. They’re alive. He is too, despite all odds.

A sudden flurry of movement grabs his attention. He watches Canach swings his blade downwards, putting all his weight into the blow. The Commander blocks it with their sword easily, except they don’t stop there. In moments, Canach is grasping at nothing but empty air, and his sword lies disarmed some ways off.

The Commander sighs and sheathes their sword. This close, he can see the muscles straining under their damp clothes, the beads of sweat traveling down their neck and disappearing under fabric. He watches, transfixed, as The Commander grabs a nearby glass of water and foregoes drinking it, opting to just dump it all over themself instead.

Someone clears their throat next to him, and he nearly opens his wounds again trying to keep himself from yelling in shocked surprise.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Canach grumbles next to him. He is glad that he can no longer seem to glow- else he’s sure that his entire face would be painted orange.

“I’m not- '' He begins, but the secondborn has already wandered away. He hears The Commander call his name, having spotted him, and all thoughts of Canach’s strange behavior melts away when he sees their face light up.

(His throat is annoyingly dry. It’s the only reason he can think of for his difficulty speaking when The Commander bounds over, soaking wet and dripping.)

* * *

The healers find him a few hours later.

The scolding Trahearne receives is admonishing enough to make half the pact look ashamed simply for being present, and he is promptly wheeled back to bed once his ears stop ringing.

(The Commander grins at him over the healer’s shoulder, and winks.)

He still doesn’t regret it.

* * *

He has to go back to being a Marshall sometime.

His wounds heal, and his leaves grow back, until the healers stop glowering at him whenever he leaves the bed, and Caithe stops looking at him with shadows under her eyes. He prepares himself for it. This is what he’d been made for.

(He still doesn’t breathe. His glow never comes back. He’s lost all the green in his leaves, and his heart doesn’t beat at all, these days.)

Logan drops by with maps in his arms, supply lists and half written strategies and paperwork. He takes them all, hands trembling slightly, and he’s already thinking of ways to cut expenses, what troops to send, speeches to give. Minutes tick by.

...The Commander is staring at him. He doesn’t know why.

“Is something the matter?” He asks, and they jolt guiltily. He offers them a small smile, but to his bafflement, they look away. “Commander?” He urges, putting down the paper he’s holding. It can wait. This can’t.

All is silent for a few moment.

“...You don’t have to keep doing this, you know.” 

The leaves on the back of his neck stand on end. “Do what?” He asks, keeping the tremor out of his voice. The Commander still won’t meet his eyes.

“Like- this.” They motion at the documents stacked on his bed, the ink smudges on his fingers. “I know you don’t like being Marshall. You just took the job because the Pale Tree told you to. You already fought two dragons, and you- you almost died against Mordremoth!”

They take a deep breath. “No one would blame you if you left it to Logan.” 

His chest is tight with an unidentifiable emotion. For a second, he feels like he can’t breathe.

Then he lets it go, lets it all go in a rush, exhales. In. Out. The Commander continues talking, though it’s clear that they’ve begun to babble out of sheer panic now.

He threads his fingers between The Commander’s just to make their shaking stop. “Commander.” He murmurs, cutting off their tirade. “I appreciate your concern, but there is no need to worry.”

The words ring hollow. The Commander is still facing away. “That’s not true.” They argue weakly, and he hates himself for what he is about to say. “You clearly hate being Marshall. Why won’t you step down?”

Just three words. Three simple words.

“What about you?” He asks, and they still, gone deathly pale. “Why are you still here, Commander?”

“I-“ They open their mouth, close it, open it again. They look so lost he feels the guilt begin to well up inside him. “I have to be here. The Pact needs me. Tyria needs me.”

He nods, not trusting his voice, and waits until he’s sure he can speak without it cracking. “Ah.” He begins, and stops. “Ah,” he tries again. “That’s why.”

The Commander says nothing, just stares at him with wide eyes. This time he’s the one to look away, silent even as The Commander starts squeezing his hands hard enough to hurt.

_ You’re just like me _ , he thinks, and they both break together.

* * *

(If he were braver, perhaps he would do what The Commander suggested. Make a life of his own, one where his orders didn’t decide the fates of hundreds of soldiers or turn the tide of a war. 

He’s always been a coward though, years spent in Orr staying as passive as he could proving that. He knows himself.

Enough so that he knows that when he says “I’m waiting for the right time”, he really means never.)

* * *

He makes his return a few months after Mordremoth’s defeat.

“Welcome back Marshall!” The soldiers cheer, clapping his shoulder or patting him on his back. There is no one who seems unhappy that he’s back.

Even The Commander smiles at him, even if there’s a slight shadow lurking at the edges of it. “Welcome back Marshall.” They say, and the warmth in their voice is genuine- it makes everything a little brighter.

“I‘m glad to be back.” He says, and at least in this moment it’s not a lie.

* * *

“Looks like The Commander has a friend.” 

Caithe’s voice is amused, and already he’s wary. His sister tends to have a strange sense of humor. “Excuse me?” He asks, just to clarify, and she turns her head slightly, in the direction The Commander is in.

The Commander, who’s standing next to a handsome young man. A young man who plants a kiss on their hand, and gives them a deep bow.

He suddenly feels uncomfortably cold. Caithe continues as if nothing is wrong, her voice never losing that smooth amused edge. “He’s a visiting noble from Divinity's Reach.”

The man straightens and offers The Commander a disarming smile. He watches their cheeks alight and barely hears Caithe’s next words. “They seem to get along.”

“I see.” He answers, voice alien to his own ears. “If you will excuse me Caithe, I have something to do.”

His sister waves him off, and his feet take him to The Commander of his own accord. “Commander.” He greets, and their smile widens when they see him. It makes the cold knot in his chest ease somewhat.

“Trahearne! This is Johanssen. Johanseen, this is Marshall Trahearne.” The noble is looking between them both, a perplexed expression on his face.

“It is nice to meet you.” He tells Johanssen, putting a smile on his face. One of his hands rise up to clasp the Commander’s shoulder. 

Johanssen blinks. Once, twice.

Then he starts laughing, of all things.

“Oh! I didn’t know- Well, why didn’t you just tell me you guys were- well then!” His laughter winds down, peeters out into soft chuckles. “It’s alright, I know when I’m wasting my time. I hope you two have a lovely day together.”

Trahearne and The Commander trade twin looks of confusion as Johanssen walks away, whistling a jaunty tune. 

* * *

He sees Johanssen again later that night, sitting next to Caithe of all people. Sitting this close, he can faintly hear what they’re saying.

“Why didn’t they just say they were together?” The noble asks, and Caithe pinches the bridge of her nose. 

“Because they do not realize it.” She mutters, and Johanssen knocks over his mug of ale in surprise, spilling it.

He has to wonder who they’re talking about, as the two of them start speaking in hushed murmured voices and the noble’s eyes keep widening in disbelief.

* * *

“You know, Johanssen keeps mentioning you.” The Commander tells him, catching him when he stumbles. They always do. “He keeps saying we should talk more.”

“I see.” He murmurs, confused despite himself. “Well, I would not be against that.”

The smile that crosses The Commander’s face makes them shine like the sun.

* * *

He’s arm deep in paperwork when he hears about Balthazar for the first time, straight from the lips of one of the soldiers.

“I have family there,” She had told him once she finished the report, face bone white. “I know it’s not the dragons, Marshall, but-“

He nods, and she leaves his tent with a bit more color to her cheeks. Once she’s gone though, he slumps in his seat, a headache beginning to plague his head.

This does need their attention, there’s no denying it- especially given the mention the report made of a dragon who’d been saving villages from Balthazar. But most of the pact are away, devoting their time and manpower to researching the remaining elder dragons. And besides, this was a fallen god they were talking about. Not many people would be able to survive a fight with them, if it came to that.

Not many people...

He moves as if in a dream, standing and walking through the entrance of his tent. It feels like he’s not controlling his own body, as he gets the attention of one of the soldiers and wave them closer.

“Please send for The Commander.” He says, and his skin crawls as he watches them hurry away.

* * *

The Commander accepts. They will depart at once with the rest of Dragon’s Watch.

He wishes he could feel relief.

* * *

“You should go with them.”

Of all the things he expected to hear from Caithe, this is not one of them.

“What?” He asks, steps slowing to a halt. They’ve been walking to the airship docks, about to ask when the fleet will be ready, and this feels like it came out of nowhere. 

The look his sister gives him is two parts sad and one part exasperated. “You’re clearly worried about The Commander. You should accompany them.” Caithe repeats slowly, letting the words sink in.

“That is impossible.” He tells them after a few moments pause. “As the Marshall. I must stay with the Pact.”

Caithe crosses her arms, looking like she’s considering saying something. He decides not to give her a chance. “Now if you will excuse me, I need to check on the airships.”

He’s only taken a few steps when she speaks again, this time in a voice so low he can barely hear her. “You love them.” She says, and-

The world stops.

He tries to say something, but she won’t give him time to gather himself, her words continuing mercilessly. 

“You love them. Everyone can see it.“ Caithe tells him, staring into his eyes. “No one would blame you for leaving with them.”

( _ No one would blame you if you left it to Logan.  _ The Commander had told him, eyes staring beseechingly into his own.)

He looks away.

* * *

It’s not-

It’s not as if he doesn’t know that he feels something for The Commander, something that steps neatly over the boundaries between friendship and more. It’s not like he’s completely blind.

_ It’s easy to love The Commander,  _ he thinks, sitting shoulder to shoulder with them as they recount a funny story that he’s half listening to. It’s easy to love them when they smile at him like that, their eyes curved and soft and gentle, when they place a hand over his and squeezes. It’s easier still to  _ fall _ in love, after everything that’s happened, after they risked their life- the world- just to save him.

( _ Please kill me, Commander. _ he had told them. They had dropped caldabogh and were crying, big fat tears rolling down their face, breathless at the intensity of it. He was so tired of hurting them, he was just so tired.  _ Please. _

_ No, _ they had sobbed out, the word cracking and splintering like an overripe fruit.  _ I won’t do it. I won’t. _ )

But what can he offer them, really? Most days it feels like he died with his hunt, died with the rest of the fleet in Maguuma, like he has nothing left to give. He grew up surrounded by death and he even looks the part, now- The Commander deserves better. They need someone who can give them a life outside of battle and constant war, and he can’t give them that, not when he’s trapped under the weight of his own title.

The Commander laughs, and their words float away in the breeze. The sunlight bores down on them, flecks of gold dancing around in their eyes- and he can see every individual lash, every scar they have, the delicate curve of their fingers; the way starlight seem to settle and shimmer in the curves of their face when they smile. Seeing them like this makes him want to melt into them, to be drawn in by their gravitational field, become an orbiting star. He wants to cup their face between his hands and kiss them, slowly, softly, like they have all the time in the world.

“Trahearne, are you listening?”

He can’t though. And as much as he needs them, so does the world.

“Always,” He tells The Commander, and they beam at him. He tells himself that that’s enough. That their friendship is enough.

He leans into their warmth anyway, half closing his eyes. 

* * *

“I’m waiting for the right moment.” He tells Caithe later, when the sun has gone down and The Commander is packing their things. They leave for the desert tomorrow.

Caithe doesn’t look like she believes him, but that’s alright- he isn’t sure how much he believes himself either.

* * *

“Now, don’t forget to drink plenty of water Commander, and make sure to keep in the shade- I’ve heard that the heat is merciless-“

“Trahearne, I’ll be fine.” The Commander huffs, but it’s all in good humor. The airship looms ahead of them both, and he won’t admit it, but he’s afraid. “This isn’t my first time outside Tyria. Remember Orr?”

He does actually, but it doesn’t make the fear welling inside him lessen in the slightest. “I’m just... concerned.” He manages to say past the lump in his throat. “Balthazar might be a fallen god, but he is still tremendously powerful.”

“I get it.” The Commander shrugs easily, though the corners of their eyes are tight. “But I survived two dragons, remember? I’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry so much.”

“You are my friend. I’ll always worry about you.” He tells them, and they give him that smile that never fails to steal his breath away. Their hands clasp his between them, and squeeze.

“If it bothers you that much, you should come with us.” The Commander teases.

This is the moment where he should agree. Should apologize for waiting so long to ask. Should reveal the packed bags in his tent, and drag them out here, step onto the airship hand in hand with them. Caithe’s stare drills holes into the back of his head.

“I wish that were possible.” He says instead, and he wishes he could feel surprised that he’s taking the coward’s way out yet again.

* * *

He waits until the airship disappears from sight before turning.

Caithe’s disappointed gaze chases him all the way back into his tent.

* * *

“Taimi? Do you read? Come in.”

The warmth that wells up in him at hearing The Commander’s voice is inexplicable. He’s mute as he hears their words crackle over the airwaves, lightly marred by radio static and horrendous signal, allowing Taimi to take control of most of the conversation. 

Okay. They’re okay. He hasn’t known a moment of peace since communications cut out, and he probably won’t until The Commander is safely home.

“It’s good that you’re alright, Commander.” He finally interjects after Taimi has finished grilling them about this supposedly new Scion, Aurene’s brother Vlast- something he files away to think about later. 

There’s a bubble of surprised laughter over the comms. Even if they’re miles away, he cant help the fond smile that tugs at his lips. “Marshall! I didn’t know you were there. How are things with the Pact?”

“Fine.” He responds, for lack of anything else to say. Things certainly had been fine when he’d left for Rata Novus earlier.

“Better than the madhouse here in the labs.” Taimi agrees, nose upturned. “They’re giving tours here now. Tours!”

“Sounds like a problem.” The Commander chuckles, and he can’t help it- he knows that they aren’t here, but he lets the tension leak out of him anyway, the pressure dripping off his shoulders. They’ve always had that affect on him. 

Taimi gives him a dissecting glance that’s far too knowing, before turning her attention back to the conversation. “Speaking of tours, here comes one now.” She starts, as the door to the lab swings inward. “Check back in when you get the chance!”

He nods, before remembering that they can’t see it and clearing his throat in embarrassment. “Er- yes. We look forward to hearing more from you Commander.”

Taimi switches communications off, before pinning him with a mischievous look. “So,” she starts, resting her chin on her hands. “You and The Commander huh?”

He suddenly wishes he had work to attend to.

* * *

“I almost died.”

It’s barely audible. He has to strain his ears to hear it. Taimi is out of earshot, and now he has to wonder if The Commander chose to wait to speak for that very reason.

“What happened?” He asks, voice low, and he can hear them swallow long and hard.

“Balthazar- he would have killed me. If Vlast hadn’t gotten in the way...” Their voice cracks just a little at the dragon’s name. “I can’t let him get away with this Trahearne. He’s ruined so many lives...”

He thinks of the way their words had shaken when they’d talked about the refugee camps they’d visited, the tears in their voice when they mentioned the overcrowded temples and how there’s never enough food and water to go around. His stomach churns.

“I understand.” He whispers, and wishes they were here- if only so he could pull them into a hug.

* * *

“Hello?”

“Hello? Commander, are you talking to me? Your signal's really strong. How'd you do that?

“I jumped into a deep pit.”

“I’m sorry, you did  _ what _ ?”

“Oh Marshall..! Didn’t know you were there. Did I say deep pit? I meant shallow. Real shallow, actually. No need to worry.”

“...”

“Trahearne?”

“Good job, you broke him. Now, what happened? Tell me everything!”

* * *

Multiple recordings later, a battle with some forged, and an outpouring of so much new information that even Taimi is having trouble keeping up, The Commander is on their way to Skimshallow Cove.

“Commander,” he starts. Taimi’s busy trying to get a message to the rest of Dragon’s Watch. “Be careful.” If Balthazar were to strike...

The last time they’d fought him, they would have died were it not for Vlasts’s intervention, and that was with the entire guild behind them: they’re alone now.

“I will.” They murmur, voice steady. The wind is howling in the background. “But I’ll have to fight Balthazar sometime. He needs to be stopped- you know that.”

He does, actually. That doesn’t mean he has to like it. 

“Trahearne.” They say again, when he doesn’t respond. “I’ll be fine, alright?”

He takes a deep breath. In. Out. 

“I know you will.” He tells them, miraculously keeping the worry out of his voice. “I’ll see you soon, my friend.”

He can practically feel them smile from here. “Good.” They tell him, right before the signal seems to fail them both and communications cut off.

* * *

Taimi ushers him out of the labs right after. “No offense Marshall, but things are pretty tense right now, and I have to focus. I’ll update you if anything happens though.”

“Of course. I understand.” He replies, in a voice so flat it’s devoid of all emotion. If Taimi notices, she doesn’t say anything. He makes his way out with his skin crawling.

* * *

He’s shifting through paperwork back at Fort Trinity when a chill crawls down his spine. He shudders from the force of it, his fingers gone limp around his quill.

It’s probably just his left side acting up again, he decides. It has to be.

* * *

...

His communicator remains silent. Taimi hasn’t called him.

....

He should feel relieved.

...

Why does he feel so cold?

* * *

“I’m heading for Rata Novus.”

* * *

“Taimi?” He calls out as he steps into the lab, and his stomach drops when he takes a good look around. Everything is a mess- the lights are out, plunging the room into complete darkness, and there’s stuff littered on the floor. “Where are you?”

No answer. But now that he’s closed the door, he can faintly hear something: a muffled noise from the corner, that sounds so close to sobbing that his hands begin to shake.

He approaches slowly. “...Taimi?” He repeats, but softer this time, and he sucks in a raw breath when he notices the curled up asura trembling in the corner, arms wrapped around herself. The communicator is a few feet away from her and in pieces, as if she had thrown it. The dread in his chest intensifies. “What happened?”

She raises her head. Her eyes are red and puffy from hours of crying, her cheeks still glistening from tears. She looks like she’s been screaming.

“Taimi.” He kneels down, and by the pale tree he’s terrified- but he has to know. (Even if some part of him deep down already does, is already mourning.) “Taimi, did something happen to The Commander?”

* * *

The world falls apart.

* * *

The world falls apart, the world falls apart, the world falls apart-

What’s the  _ point- _

(THE WORLD FALLS APART-)

* * *

He should have been there.

* * *

He should have been there. 

He should have been.

* * *

Is he crying?

He doesn’t know. He can’t tell. It doesn’t matter.

( _ The world falls apart- _ )

* * *

His eyes feel too heavy. He can’t keep them open.

Hot tears spill down his cheeks and he sobs, his feelings too big for his body, cold to the very marrow of his bones.

He can’t breathe. He retches, wishing there was a way to stop feeling, stop crying, just stop for a few moments.

But he can’t.

(The world keeps spinning- the world falls apart.)

* * *

He’s staring at his bloody hand when the communicator on his hip crackles to life.

“Marshall!” Taimi says, but he isn’t paying attention, the words as insubstantial as mist. He feels like his body is moving on autopilot, his soul gone somewhere else, far from here. “Can you hear me?”

He doesn’t answer. Taimi coughs.

“Okay, I’m going to assume you can hear me- The Commander’s alive!”

(.)

(What?)

“What?” He asks, treacherous hope swelling to life in his chest. “They’re- You told me they found their body.”

(Cut in half, burnt so thoroughly that it took them a while to verify that it was The Commander; he’d had to coax every word out of Taimi’s lips, but at that sentence he breaks and breaks and continues breaking, alone.)

Taimi’s voice wobbles its way into his ears. “I don’t know how they did it, but I heard them myself, and the others confirmed it. They’re back. They came to life..!”

It’s almost too much. He almost breaks again, but he keeps himself afloat, struggles to draw breath. “They’re alive.” He repeats, and-

(The world- doesn’t- fall apart.)

Alive. They’re alive.

* * *

There’s something crawling under his skin. There’s something beating in his chest. There’s something he can feel, a weight on his shoulders.

(Is this relief? Is this worry? Is this grief?)

He’d failed them, there was no denying it. They had died because he hadn’t been there. But now he has a second chance.

(His nightmares had almost come true.)

There’s still something he can do, and for once in his life, he isn’t scared at all.

* * *

“Get an airship ready.” He orders the nearest soldier. His face is perfectly blank, his voice carefully measured. He looks perfectly normal, he’s sure.

The Pact Soldier takes one look at his expression and their eyes widen, stammering out an agreement before practically fleeing. 

Perhaps not then.

* * *

Caldabogh sits at the corner of his tent. He hasn’t picked it up since before Maguuma.

(His left side twinges.)

He hesitates.

Then he reaches forward and grabs it, sheathing it before he has the opportunity to change his mind.

* * *

Caithe finds him as he’s walking towards the airship dock, about to ask if everything is ready.

She looks about to speak, but he doesn’t give her a chance. “I’m going to Elona.” He tells her. She looks at him in confusion. 

“Right now? And alone?” He knows why she’s asking- the last time he’d been on an airship, the entire fleet had been pulled out of the sky, and he ended up held captive in the deep bowels of the jungle. But he can’t be scared. He’s tired of being afraid.

“The Commander was killed.” He says instead of replying, and then immediately, before his sister can grieve: “They returned to life. But I will not see them face Balthazar again alone.”

Caithe stares at him. For a split second, he thinks she’s going to try and stop him, for all that she’d been the one telling him to go in the first place.

Instead, she leans forward and wraps him up in a hug.

The physical act is so unexpected and uncharacteristic of Caithe that he just stands there dumbfounded while she puts her lips to his ear. “I’m glad,” she whispers. “That you’re leaving. I didn’t fight hard enough for my beloved. I don’t wish to see you making the same mistake.”

It doesn’t take him long to deduce what she means, as she steps back and he can read the sorrow and grief in her eyes like shattered glass. “It was not your fault.”

“Wasn’t it? I could have tried harder to keep Faolain by my side, but I did not. Now she is gone, and I never said my goodbyes.” She smiles thinly, in a way that doesn’t reach her eyes. “But this is not about me.”

He wants to repeat to her again that it wasn’t her fault. That no one could have saved Faolain- that this isn’t her burden to bear. But he looks at the broken windows that are his sister’s eyes and he knows, perhaps better than most, that some hurts can’t be healed so easily.

“Go.” She tells him, and he does.

* * *

The second the airship lands he’s out like a shot, a strange itching under his skin. It’s not just emotion: the air is thick with magic and the taste of death and brimstone, a pressure on his shoulders that doesn’t ease.

A voice sounds from his communicator once more. “Marshall, are you in Elona yet?”

“I am.” He confirms, gladder than ever that the signal seems to be holding steady. “Where are they?”

“I don’t know. I tried reaching The Commander, but wherever they are the signal’s so bad communications cut out constantly. Maybe you can ask around?”

Maybe. But that may not be necessary. Not when he can feel the abundance of living corpses somewhere in the desert, pulling at his magic and drawing him in.

“I think I know how to find them.” He murmurs into the communicator, staring into the horizon.

* * *

He’s halfway there when the battle begins.

The dull roar of two armies clashing wash over him like a wave, and he quickens his pace. It doesn’t take long for him to reach his destination, and he can see the fighting from here: Balthazar’s forged and what seemed to be an army of awakened marching on each other. If he really focuses, he can see flashes of pink that give away Kasmeer’s illusions, the blood red pulses of energy radiating off Rytlock’s frame, the flashes of steel as Canach cuts enemies down.

His eyes are drawn to the front of the conflict, and even though they’re wearing a different skin, he knows The Commander like the back of his own hand.

Every inch of his body is screaming at him to go to them, but they must have a reason to be in disguise, so he refrains; instead he slides down the dunes to come to a stop by the awakened he had decided was Kasmeer earlier.

“Kasmeer.” He greets, and she whirls around to stare at him.

“Marshall? What are you doing here?” She asks in disbelief, even as she easily takes down a Forged soldier with a well placed attack. He draws Caldabogh in response, skewering another nearby Forged. 

“To assist.” He says, and then he offers her a wry grin. “Do you have enough energy for another illusion?”

* * *

He makes his way out of the thick of the fighting, eyes still on the figure currently engaging what seemed to be Balthazar’s terrible beast in combat.

The god of war himself is there, aiming for The Commander as the machine loads up another volley, and he doesn’t hesitate: he lunges forward and blocks the blow, uncaring of the flames that are currently licking at Cadalbogh’s blade.

The Commander looks at him incredulously as the illusion Kasmeer had layered over him shatters in a shower of glass. “Marshall?” They ask in a small voice, and he hadn’t realised how much he’s missed them until this moment. There’s so much he wants to say, so much he wants to tell them.

But that will have to wait.

“Commamder.” He acknowledges, dipping his head just slightly. “Take care of that warbeast. I will keep Balthazar company.”

Balthazar’s face twists in rage for a split second before it’s gone. “Another insignificant insect?” The god sneers, loathing dripping from his word. “Ha! Come then, entertain me!”

“With pleasure.” He replies, and he lands the first blow.

* * *

When it comes to pure swordsmanship, Balthazar has him  _ completely _ outmatched. 

He isn’t very surprised, even as he tucks his knees to his chest and drops to a roll, neatly avoiding the blade that nearly took his head off. They’re the God of War, and he’s never been the best at wielding a sword.

But that doesn’t mean that he can’t stall for time, distract, summon undead minions- just generally being a nuisance. What’s important is keeping them away from The Commander and the Warbeast, long enough for them to rejoin the battle: and then together, they can take him down.

Balthazar snarls in wordless fury as he dodges another strike, a minion emerging from the sand to take his place. “Foolish, insolent plant! I may need that impudent newt alive, but you have no such privilege!” 

He keeps silent, Caldabogh sweeping forward to knock them off their feet. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“I’ve killed them once before.” Balthazar continues, not even fazed by the blow. They reach forward and rip his minion apart in a shower of blood and gore. “Both of you will  **_die_ ** here, alone and insignificant!”

He grits his teeth, a bright burn of anger licking at the gaps between his ribs, the sudden emotion almost enough to take his breath away. But rage makes people careless, so he pushes it down: he can’t afford mistakes. “Not alone.” He grits through his teeth as a spark scalds his cheek. He puts distance between them, staring the god down. “And I will not let you hurt them.”

And maybe Balthazar sees something in his gaze, because the god growls and launches themself at him once again, envy and bitterness and rage glinting in their eyes.

“Commander!” He calls out as he tries to keep up with the flurry of blows he now has to deal with. “Any moment now..!”

“Just hold on a little longer Marshall!” Comes the reply, and he winces as Balthazar’s sword grazes his waist, summoning minions to grab at their feet and make them stumble. “I’ve almost got it down!”

Kralkatorrik roars, and he holds the line.

* * *

The War Beast falls.

The Commander joins the fight.

* * *

The tide turns quickly after that.

Now that Balthazar isn’t bearing down on him with all their power behind them, he finally has a little breathing room- so he lets himself look at The Commander, searching for hidden wounds and injuries.

Apart from a few bruises they didn’t seem to be hurt, and he releases the breath he’s been holding; they’re alive. That’s all that matters.

“Little help here Marshall?” The Commander grunts as they parry an attack that could have killed them again easily. Every inch of his body aches, and his hands are slick with blood and covered with burn marks- but he rejoins the battle all the same.

* * *

It happens like this:

Balthazar is angry, and anger makes people reckless: but anger also makes people stronger, if only in the moment. His army is dwindling against Awakened assault. His War Beast is in pieces, scattered across the sand. He’s fighting two mortals who refuse to die, who hacks away at his health little by little.

It happens like this:

Balthazar lifts his hands and forms a shield around him, solid and thick. The air hums with power as he readies himself to smite these two mortals- the same way he had killed The Commander.

It happens like this:

The Commander breaks Aurene out of her chains, and prepares to unleash a furious coordinated attack. 

It happens like this:

Their attack misses, unused as they are to Sohothin, and Balthazar laughs as his power continues to build.

It happens like this:

The Commander knows what’s coming, shuts their eyes as Aurene howls.

Trahearne does not.

* * *

“Commander!” Trahearne calls over the furious winds that are beginning to billow around them, sand in his eyes and mouth. “How do we take down that shield-“

He trails off when he realizes they’ve gone still, eyes screwed shut, Sohotin hanging limply from their hands. They shake, and shake, and shake.

“Commander..?” He asks, and they make a low noise that could be a sob, voice warping over the word. Likely sensing her champion’s distress, Aurene comes over, glowing bright blue. “What is it?”

They don’t answer.

Balthzar does. “Remembering your death?” They gloat, the pressure in the air building as he prepares his attack. “What I started, I will finish. Say your goodbyes, mortals.”

And maybe it’s the way smug satisfaction drips from his words like poison. Maybe it’s the way The Commander flinches minutely as fires spring to life around them, the air filling with smoke and the smell of brimstone. 

Maybe it’s the knowledge that this has happened once before; that The Commander once died alone, bleeding out on a land far from home, Balthazar likely sneering the exact same things as he cut them down.

(Maybe it’s the way The Commander presses a hand to their stomach, and he remembers what Taimi said- Cut in half. Burned.)

Whatever it is, he looks at this false god, who’d killed The Commander and is proud of it, and-

Something in him snaps. Something in him  _ breaks _ .

“May the fires...” Balthazar drawls, holding their sword above their head, but they don’t get to finish: Caldabogh cleave through their shield in a burst of sparks-

“You will not.” He growls, and he’s so angry, so angry, so  _ angry _ , surges forward to attack them. There’s something creeping under his skin and he lets it, lets the dark feeling take over, the numbness and rage. His hands curl into fists. “Touch. Them. Never again.”

His magic begs to be released, so he allows it; the earth cracks in half beneath their feet, a long jagged fault line that swallows all of Balthazar’s hounds whole. Balthazar stumbles back.

Angry. So angry. Something dark growing within him, poison. It makes its way into his eyes, a predatory glint that wouldn’t look out of place on a dragon.

“I won’t let you touch them.” He whispers, not so much a threat as a promise, and the world falls apart.

* * *

There’s a cactus growing near them.

It’s been growing for a good few years now, covered with cheerful yellow blooms.

He brushes past it, and it shrivels up: limp and dead and rotting from the inside out, the yellow flowers gone gray.

(It smells like the jungle. It smells like death, dogging his footsteps, dragging Balthazar down.)

* * *

Now their positions are reversed: Balthazar is the one struggling to keep up.

It’s not that his swordsmanship has gotten any better. It’s that his magic pours off him in uncontrollable waves, minions rising by the hundreds as the earth continues to crack under his feet. Any fires Balthazar sets dies quickly under the buckling ground and the spells he’s throwing out, and their hounds are swallowed by the earth.

With all the attacks he’d done and all the spells he’s cast, with how long he’s been fighting, he should be scraping the bottom of his reserves a long time ago.

Instead he finds in himself a dizzyingly deep fountain of power, and Caldabogh glows in his hands.

“Impossible! I am a god!” Balthazar breathes. They’re desperate.  _ Good _ , a part of him whispers. “I am fire! I am war!”

In a last ditch attempt the god swings their blade downwards, putting all their weight into the blow, and he doesn’t dodge- he raises Caldabogh. Ordinarily he wouldn’t do so, knowing that his arms would likely struggle to hold the weight, but now the magic blooms across his skin, strengthening. 

He blocks it. And he holds.

He doesn’t stop there, repeats a move he’d seen The Commander perform what feels like an eternity ago: In moments, Balthazar is grasping at nothing but empty air.

The god of war curses at the top of his lungs. He ignores it, hefts his own sword, and strikes.

The blow lands true. He watches, surprisingly dispassionate, as Caldabogh sinks into the god’s chest and keeps going, through ribs and organs and right out of the soft flesh of Balthazar’s back.

“May... the fires... take you all....” Balthazar snarls with his last breath. He watches as the last vestiges of life leaves their eyes.

The divine fallout from the death strikes him, but he doesn’t feel it. He doesn’t feel anything actually, except anger. He’s still so angry.

The earth continues to crumble, his minions rising, and the battle is over: but why not keep going? Why not just let this magic drag him under, let the world fall apart? What’s stopping him?

What indeed?

“...ra...hearn...”

Is someone calling his name..? He looks around. The world is shaking around him.

“...Tr... hea...r...”

It’s so hard to think.

“...”

“Trahearne!”

He blinks.

The Commander is standing before him, squeezing his hands hard enough to hurt: he blinks, and then registers the sight behind them: of the world ripping itself apart; of the undead clawing their way onto the surface; of the rot slowly creeping across the desert, taking and taking and taking.

“Marshall, stop this!” The Commander says, and he tries: but the magic is too strong, unwilling to return to him. He watches, horrified, as a trace of rot begins to inch its way up The Commander’s boots.

“I. I cant.” He grits out, eyes locking with The Commander. They’re looking at him with a terrified wet gaze, and it’s-

-exactly like Maguuma. 

(Hadn’t he promised never to give them that choice again?)

“You have to.” The Commander whispers. Their hands squeeze his like a vice as the rot continues upwards. “Please, Marshall.”

He takes a shuddering breath, and he tries again. He reels his magic in, and it burns, it hurts, but he forces it to stop, forces the minions to disappear, the earth to knit itself back together. His ears ring and pop as the magic is drawn out of the world into him, like poison out of a wound, and he waits until every last drop has found its way back into him before he slams the proverbial door shut.

He exhales, and most of his strength disappears with it: The Commander catches him just in time. 

“That was... certainly eventful.” He murmurs through the cotton in his head, and The Commander gives a startled laugh. It’s a little hysterical, but he’ll take it.

“That’s one way to put it.” The Commander replies, and he leans into their warmth, squeezing their hand until the lines of their shoulders relax.

* * *

They tell everyone that the sudden earthquake was Balthazar’s doing.

He tries not to feel too guilty about it. The last thing he needs is for it to be known that some of Mordremoth’s magic had stayed with him, not when the sylvari had only just begun to be trusted again.

Besides, Balthazar more than deserves it.

* * *

“What happened to Aurene?” He asks The Commander later. After all the celebrations are done, the Awakened gone, the guild gone to rest, it’s just them both watching the ribbons of stars snaking over the desert.

The Commander turns to look at him. “She left. So did Kralkatorrik.” They are silent for a few more moments, then: “Thank you. For coming here to help us.”

He gives them his best smile, and is glad to see their eyes soften. “It was no trouble. My only regret is that I didn’t do so sooner.”

“You couldn’t have. You’re the marshall- you had duties back in the Pact.” At that, it’s his turn to look away.

“About that...” he starts, and he’s scared of what they’ll say, what everyone will say, but he won’t let his fear stop him. He knows that now. He soldiers on. “I’ve been thinking of resigning as Pact Marshall.”

The Commander gapes at him. He rushes to explain. “Logan could easily take my place. And it would leave me more time to do research into the Elder Dragons. Perhaps I could even check on Orr’s recovery...”

He trails off to a pause at The Commander’s unreadable expression, only to almost yelp in surprise as they surged forward to wrap him in a hug.

“I’m so happy for you..!” They murmur, their breath ghosting the shell of his ear, and he swallows. “Marsha- No. Trahearne.”

“Do you have room for one more in the Guild, Commander?” He asks, faintly teasing, and is rewarded with a fierce nod and a laugh.

They’re both okay. They’re both alive. 

They’ll be alright.

* * *

The Commander leans back. Their eyes shine in the darkness like twin stars.

He wants to kiss them.

So he does.


End file.
